The Longest Journey
by VargHelsing
Summary: Shorts story telling the story of the heroes before facing the last Darkest Dungeon. Part 1 in progress: The Outsider Bonfire.
1. The Lonely Hill

/REWRITTEN: I am not a native English speaker, but I still want to tried my best in mimics Lovecraftian writing style, with some of my own favors. The result may not be the best, but I hope that by reading your comment, I could improve it further. Thank you for just reading this alone though- much appreciated./

On the lonely hill overlooking the gloomy sea, the young woman sits quietly near a waning campfire, hand scribing furiously incomprehensible marking onto the ground with a wooden stick, giving her utmost attention to the crude drawing littering on the forest floor. So captivated, so mesmerize by these drawings that she pays no mind to the sound of the forest, the sound of the hamlet bellow, and the sound of the shadow moving closer and closer to the lonely campfire…

-Only to be jolt back to awareness when sound of a large slab of metal being throwed to the ground: a sword, so crude and broken that it can barely can be called one. Then came the man carrying it- giant, old and just as broken- to find respite after a long journey through the worse of nightmares, and this bonfire is the only place where outsider like him are welcomed, or at least, tolerated…

The young woman is taken aback by the abrupt arrival of the old man, but waste no time in erasing her curious scribbles by the most crude and simple way possible: a sweep from her giant glaive. But it was a vain effort, since if the old man pays any it any attention to them at all, he gives no indication of it. Instead he contents himself with just looking down the hill, to the hamlet afar, where just a few moment ago, a stage coach full of broken man such as him just arrives.

The pair spend a few uneasy minutes together, as the old man sit silently while the young woman took nervous peek to check the old man reaction. Such effort is futile however, as his face is hidden behind layers of bandages, his feature masked by the old armor strapped tightly onto his body. She notices the futility of her action eventually, and now is looking at the same direction as him instead- looking at the busy crowd that gathered near the stage coach.

The old man speaks first in his rasp and tired voice; maybe to her, maybe to himself, or perhaps to no one at all:

"Poor souls, all of them. Casted away, used and broken…"

"…"

"Lost and confused, moths to the flame, sheep to the slaughter …"

"…"

"Were we such fools once? It been so long ago, and yet-"

"Stop it old man! I didn't come here to look for redemption, much less a purpose. Just a good fight. I got nothing to regret about, so you should spare me your rambling."

"Don't tell me such lies-"

The old man seems like he wants to say something, but stopped abruptly, head deep in thoughts. Finally, he just nods:

"…Of course. A good fight."

As much as he wants to point out the pain that is oblivious in her eyes, he knew better. After all, she walks the road of a warrior. Even after all those war he waged, those battle he fought, those duels he won, the man is only as much of a warrior as she is- perhaps even less. He shudders to think of the price she must pay for it all, a price so terrible that she must hit it away…

So he points to other, merrier thoughts:

"These recruit looks promising- they might just have some really guts in them yet!"

"Hmph, we will see."


	2. The Blood Pact

The stage coach shakes and trembles as it moves along the old road: in it, the hope for a certain dammed hamlet. Such irony that the people who carries this "hope" have none of their own, instead, the promise of a payment, of freedom from the law, of honor and redemption are what they seek. They came to die- or live on like they already have. He is no different.

The town folk are gathering, their sceptic eyes scan every inch of his body, even as he pulls down his ragged excuse of a cloak down, trying his best to cover up the torture mark. A beast in a cage.

The driver, a madman whose grin is permanently imprinted on his feature, drag him from the crowd and hand him a contract- on it, the sigma of a red hook:

"Dear sir, a contract that the most marvelous Heir of this mansion himself have conducted! The one and only, just for you!"

"I- I'm…"

"Look at this! All your past crime forgiven! All your misdeed forgotten! All your desire sated! All is granted … with just a tiny drop of blood!"

"Ye- yes but…"

Before he can object, the caretaker grabs his arm, and violently jam his thumb on the mark. He felt a gushed of pain as the mark bites down his thumb, and his of blood is smears across the paper.

The caretaker looks up, maddening eyes pierce deeply into his own, a whisper most foul escapes his lips:

"All of it for a pinch of blood… and your soul… "

As the madman break into a laugh, he could feel something change within him- the whisper of the other one, silenced, and another takes its place, for just a moment: a command for loyalty, for obedient, for reverence… in exchange for the beast.

He still doesn't know why did he say yes. Such thing… such horror should not be given, shouldn't be let loose- but who can blame him?

He never felt more like himself.

The beast lurks deep in his vein, but for now, just for now…

Peace.

"Deception. Disgrace. Evil as plain as the scar on his face."

He might be one of their "heroes" but that doesn't means he should be trusted. The Heir may keep this one on a tight leash, but that doesn't stop the suspicious glares from the priest, the threats from the drunken town folks, the stare of the head nurse... Deep in their very soul, they know that this man is not human- and why keep him in here instead of out there is beyond them. All they know is: this thing, this creature will not take one step near them or their loved ones.

So here he is- feet dragging through dark forest, heavy chains slippery with sweat, moving ever slowly toward the lonely hill, looking for a respite for his first night at the Hamlet… at the outsider bonfire.


	3. The Dreamless

The wood seems no different now with the last light of day gone. It oozes a dreadful air, the kind that shaken even the most courageous of human. But the things that walk among the trees…

The old man took a long drift from the pipe. With every breath, the old man can feel the sweet poison filling his lungs, caressing his throat and kissing him passionately like a lover. Smoking is how he chooses to spent most of his time on nowadays, partly because he always like the novelty in the action, partly because it's the only way left to felt something most akin to a womanly touch.

The old man has forgot most things. Like how he felt when he found out that he got leprosy, how his wife had cried and his daughters had wept then, or how his people had mourned his passing with flowers and sad songs. But he can still remember, must remember the reason why he chooses to live as a dead man.

"Wake up! Father!"- the little girl pleads, her little hands clutching desperately to the old man tired hand…

"The nobles are hurting mother! Please father, you must wake up!" – he can feel her breaths turn faster as the sound of footsteps move closer…

"Wake up!"

The old man sprung up, drools spilling out of his mouth, and clings to his mask as he frantically looks around to find…

…the young woman, with one hand on his shoulder, and the other grips tightly to her oversize glaive, eyes fierce and sharp, like a hawk on its prey.

"Old man, we have a visitor."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Another dream. The old man haves many of those, but they never visit this frequent. Or this intense. Is the old man about to expire? To die not in the glorious thrill of the battle, but by a dreamless sleep to the oblivion, bathed in his own blood and drools rather than his enemies?

"A pity."

The ragged man raises his head in surprise, his arrival to the bonfire was greeted with silent and discord, his other companies for tonight have not showed much welcome at all, but what? A pity?

"I'm sorry?"

"Not you, beggar, but the old man there. A vile sickness took hold of him, and I doubt he got much time left on this world. A pity."

The old man, voice hoarse from a sudden dryness in his throat, protest:

"Nonsense, girl. If my death ever comes, it will come with the fall of the vilest of horrors. Until then not even the Reaper himself can ever get me!"

"Big words, old man. Let see if you can live up to it." -she chuckled.

She then turns to the ragged man, her eyes pierce through him like how a hawk would looks at its prey:

"So, what brought you here, beggar?"

The man suddenly found himself choked, struggling to get the word out of his mouth:

"…a- a wanted poster."

Her eyebrows arched:

"What for?"

"E-Expedition to a- um, mansion?"

"Show me your hand."

"-What for!?"

"Give it!"

The man gives some light resistance, but the young woman was stronger than she looks: one yank, and his hands are out in the open, away from the shadow of his ragged cloak, and together with them, a massive piece of shackles.

The hand itself are rough, dirty, and thick. The fingers are strangely disproportioned, with hard nails and large knuckles. And there, on one of them, a mark in shape of a bladed hook, dark red with dried blood.

"A warrior. But something feels off. Something about you just… stranger than the rest-"


End file.
